The girl was absolutely charming; the man, remarkable not only in himself, but for a certain air of repressed emotion, which, while it robbed his features of the dignity of repose, was still, in a way, fascinating.  They entered a waiting motor-car splendidly appointed, and I heard the man tell the tall, liveried footman to drive to the Ritz.  I leaned forward a little eagerly as they went.  I watched the car glide off and disappear, watched it until it was out of sight, and afterwards, even, watched the spot where it had vanished.  Then, with a little sigh, I turned back once more into the great hall.  There seemed to be no one left now of any interest.  The women had become ordinary, the men impossible.  With a little sigh I too aimlessly descended the steps, and stood for a moment uncertain which way to turn.

“Monsieur is looking for a light?” a quiet voice said in my ear.

I turned, and found myself confronted by a Frenchman, who had also just issued from the building and was himself lighting a cigarette.  He was clean-shaven and pale, so pale that his complexion was almost olive.  He had soft, curious-looking eyes.  He was of medium height, dark, correctly dressed according to the fashion of his country, although his tie was black and his studs of unusual size.  Something about his face struck me from the first as familiar, but for the moment I could not recall having seen him before.

“Thank you very much,” I answered, accepting the match which he offered.

The night was clear, and breathlessly still.  The full yellow moon was shining in an absolutely cloudless sky.  The match—­an English wax one, by the way—­burned without a flicker.  I lit my cigarette, and turning around found my companion still standing by my side.

“Monsieur does not do me the honor to recollect me,” he remarked, with a faint smile.

I looked at him steadfastly.

“I am sorry,” I said.  “Your face is perfectly familiar to me, and yet—­No, by Jove, I have it!” I broke off, with a little laugh.  “It’s Louis, isn’t it, from the Milan?”

“Monsieur’s memory has soon returned,” he answered, smiling.  “I have been chief maitre d’hotel in the cafe there for some years.  The last time I had the honor of serving monsieur there was only a few weeks ago.”

I remembered him perfectly now.  I remembered, even, the occasion of my last visit to the cafe.  Louis, with upraised hat, seemed as though he would have passed on, but, curiously enough, I felt a desire to continue the conversation.  I had not as yet admitted the fact even to myself; but I was bored, weary of my search, weary to death of my own company and the company of my own acquaintances.  I was reluctant to let this little man go.

“You visit Paris often?” I asked.

“But naturally, monsieur,” Louis answered, accepting my unspoken invitation by keeping pace with me as we strolled towards the Boulevard.  “Once every six weeks I come over here.  I go to the Ritz, Paillard’s, the Cafe de Paris,—­to the others also.  It is an affair of business, of course.  One must learn how the Frenchman eats and what he eats, that one may teach the art.”